Minkchocolates

Break it and They Will Come

Saturday. The dishwasher in the Mink house is doing everything it can to hang on to its dignity, but in reality is moments away from being dragged out into the street and run over with my car. My wife wants me to go to Costco and load up on paper plates and plastic cutlery so she can stop investing anything more into that dysfunctional relationship. I ask for a reprieve on behalf of the appliance long enough to get the repair guy back in so I can pay another $95 for a service call just to be told I should take it out into the street and run over it with my car.

 “You’re a glutton for punishment,” she says. “For the amount of dishes we generate in this house, you should put in one of those 3-1/2 minute cycle hi-temp beauties you use in the Cafe.”

She’s right, of course, but for all the love I have in my heart for the Hobart SR-24H under counter dishwashing beast, the lack of sufficient amperage and my failure to address that issue during our recent renovation makes the prospect of replacing our derelict Maytag slim to none.

Monday. I come home early to meet the Sears repair guy. As usual, he is without the service history that should have been triggered by the serial number and other sundry information I entered through the telephone prompt when I booked the appointment. He sets his tools on the floor in front of the sink, and asks me what the problem is.

“Kim Kardashian was married longer than this machine has worked,” I tell him.

I point to the last load of allegedly clean glasses and cutlery on the counter so he could see evidence of deliberate dereliction of duty. He ponders the challenge of the scene for a moment, then gets down on all fours, and reaches into the dishwasher and starts poking the holes in the wash arms with a straightened paper clip.

A few moments later he complains about how he can’t see what he’s doing. He asks for a flashlight. I’m looking around for the cue card gal, thinking I’m making my small screen debut on Candid Camera. Maybe Allen Funt will stick his head out of the sink drain and proclaim the dishwasher’s defect to be nothing more than an elaborate hoax. I grab the small kitchen Mag Light and pass it to him.

Mr. unprepared crouches back down in front of the open dishwasher, shines the light inside and says, “Say ah…”

I can see this isn’t going to end well. I text my wife and ask her to create a pretence under which I can get him to pack up his tools and leave. I send it twice to reinforce the exigency of the situation.

He then turns, looks up at me, his eyes rheumy and his voice quivering, “I just need to get off this island. The doctors don’t believe I invented the chocolate éclair. But I did.”

Tuesday. We’re half way through the first rush of the day, and Jules motions me over to the Synesso. In the pursuit of perfection but driven by minutiae, she’s been pulling shots fast and flawless, but can’t quite put her finger on the unusual aroma wafting up under her chin. What should be the glorious scent of rich, full espresso has a top note of a burning electrical nature. I quickly concur that it’s not good, and call for service.

The repair technician on his arrival reminds me his flat rate for a service call is only $75. I consider it the by-product of not being unionized that I’m saving $20 off the benchmark rate set by my incompetent dishwasher guy.

With his own flashlight, Martin quickly determines the source of the smell is coming from the instant hot water boiler below the jug rinser. I’m relieved it’s not the espresso machine, but irritated that it requires yet another call and another guaranteed service charge. I make that call because a day without butt crack is a day without sunshine.

Thursday. I come home early to pay bills, but halfway through I take a break from my work to contemplate the mathematical relationship between the cost of service calls and the likelihood of needing one immediately after a warranty expires.  

I grab a recyclable plastic bowl and spoon and help myself from the fridge to a generous serving of dark chocolate ganache with a mound of aerosol whipped cream, and turn on the TV, and start to watch a re-run of Pawn Stars. In it, various people walk in to a Las Vegas pawn shop with things they think are of great value, but seldom are. It seems that in every episode, a guy has something with a compelling backstory, but it’s broken. The pawn broker star of the show has to determine if it’s worth putting lipstick on the pig, so he invites one of his on-call experts to come down, presumably without incurring a service charge, and render an opinion.

I laugh out loud at the absurdity of the situation these folks find themselves in.

“Had it in the family for a hundred years, but got to buy beer for the Super Bowl. Can you give me $2500 for it?” the yokel asks.

“Best I can do is $100. One dollar for every year it lay in a dusty shoebox in the attic,” the host replies.

I finish my chocolate treat, and toss the cup and spoon into the blue box, content that I don’t have to rinse dishes and load the dishwasher, and get back to my task at hand.

 Marc Lieberman

Mink Chocolates Inc.,
Mink A Chocolate Cafe Ltd.

Call the store: 604.633.2451
Call my mobile: 604.376.3464
Call toll free: 1.866.283.5181

Shop: minkchocolates.com
Tweet: twitter.com/minkchocolates
Join: facebook.com/minkchocolates.van
Read: blog.minkchocolates.com
Watch: youtube.com/user/minkchocolates
In Person: 863 Hastings Street West, Vancouver, BC V6C 3N9

A Crash of Epic Proportion

Wednesday. I go to Fred’s Yaletown showroom to deliver bulk chocolate that he can put out for clients, and demi-tasse cups and saucers for his newly built espresso and scotch bar. Grateful he no longer has to serve macchiatos in hi-ball glasses, he offers to make me a coffee from a pound of Stumptown beans he got on a recent trip to Seattle.

I watch him fiddle and fuss with an assortment of dials and knobs that have only icons to explain their function. Fred doesn’t read icon. The coffee is poured long and weak. He downs his without hesitation, and looks to me for approval. I shrug.

Twenty minutes and seven cups later, he admits to needing to read the manual. He’s starting to twitch and his eyes have glazed over. He puts his hand on his chest and I can see he’s counting beats per minute.

Resuscitate a guy with dry lips or feign an excuse to pick the fleas of a thousand camels from my armpits, I choose the latter and make a hasty exit.

Friday. The Professor is on his way to the Café, and texts me to ask if our POS system is back up and running. While I was at Fred’s two days before, witnessing coffee shock syndrome, the web-based till at the store suffered a catastrophic hard drive failure, necessitating terminal replacement on Thursday and countless hours on speakerphone with tech support. It also forced us to a hand written post-it note order system and cash only payment.

I reply that too much time spent looking at a tangle of wires in a dimly lit cupboard has given me eye strain, but we’re almost fully operational. He offers to bring his LED headlamp.

“I’m looking forward to the day when the air is so electrified that nothing ever needs a wire or plugging in again,” I text him in response.

“I’d never want to leave ohm,” he replies.

Saturday. My new baby girl is balanced on my chest and shoulder while I attend to a backlog of emails. iTunes is running in the background and it seems she’s keen on the Kings of Leon.

Today was supposed to be the end of the world and I wanted to make sure I answered everybody before humanity experienced catastrophic heart drive failure.

There are a slew of notifications from Twitter that I’m being followed. I instinctively look over my shoulder.

The sudden movement wakes the baby. Her eyes half-open and glazed, and gently twitching, she burps up something that looks like tuna fish, which is odd, because she’s drunk on an exclusive diet of breast milk. I take that as my cue to pass her off to mama Mink, and go upstairs to make a cup of coffee.

Fred calls. He says he’s gone through two pounds of espresso in less than four days, and he’s also finished the 2.2 kg box of dark mini Mink chocolate squares. I remind him the chocolate was earmarked for clients.

“I’m not in season,” he says. “I won’t have anyone in for a few weeks yet, but I find those little squares so easy to eat.”

We make arrangements to meet at the Café Sunday so he can replenish his coffee and chocolate inventory. It means too, that I can regulate his coffee consumption. I can’t afford to be party to another catastrophic failure of any kind.

Marc Lieberman

Mink Chocolates Inc.,
Mink A Chocolate Cafe Ltd.

Call the store: 604.633.2451
Call my mobile: 604.376.3464
Call toll free: 1.866.283.5181

Shop: minkchocolates.com
Tweet: twitter.com/minkchocolates
Join: facebook.com/mink.chocolates
Read: blog.minkchocolates.com
Watch: youtube.com search mink chocolates
In Person: 863 Hastings Street West, Vancouver, BC V6C 3N9

Nine out of every ten persons say they love chocolate. The tenth lies.
– Anthelme Brillat-Savarin

March Forth

Monday. Fred reminds me that March 4th is the only day of the year that is also a command. He asks me if I’m going to use that to celebrate my achievements and set new goals.

“Maybe if it wasn’t so close to New Year’s,” I say. “I’m seeing a lot of failed resolutions and we’re only eight weeks in.”

I emphasize how being in the café business allows me to see and listen firsthand to people profess change but ultimately slide back into old habits.

“In January, our skim milk consumption increased four-fold. Everyone was on a diet,” I offer. “By the first of February, low-fat milk is the sole domain of ladies who lunch, and vegans who cheat.”

Tuesday. Fred sends me a link to the 25 most inspirational songs of all time. There’s Survivor’s Eye of the Tiger, Vangelis’ Chariots of Fire, and a couple of tracks from the Rocky movies.

“Put these on the store playlist,” he says. “Start your day with a staff pep talk, and crank these loud. Get them motivated to strive for excellence. To march forth and conquer.”

This in response to my having told him that I’ve been struggling to find the antidote for complacency that I fear has permeated the rank and file. No longer does it suffice to rely on the communication book to point out the things that were missed. My ‘Discipline Equals Freedom’ approach has lost its edge. I’m loathe to micro-manage. I think it’s time for some one-on-one. Or at least a staff meeting.

Wednesday. I call up Faith at the Morgan Crossing store, and we talk staff motivation. She tells me she’s split her regular to-do list into tasks and assigned them to various shifts. Rather than make any one person responsible for a particular thing, or have to rely on everyone being generalists and doing everything, she has a specific shift responsible for specific tasks.

“Funny how that much coveted ten thirty to seven shift fell out of favor when it got assigned bathroom maintenance,” she says. “But the nine o’clock dust and fluff is in huge demand.”

That triggers my rant. “Where did this sense of entitlement come from,” I query. “Haven’t they had to walk to and from school up hill in the snow with newspaper in their shoes?”

Faith struggles to hold back her laughter. “How old are you exactly?”

Granted, I may be a victim of an Eastern European immigrant’s work ethic, but I don’t think the advent of the iPhone precludes anyone from working hard. You just can’t call it in, and expect to succeed.

Thursday. I sit down with Ben, and tell him it’s time for everyone to undergo a performance review. I remind him that each of his hires were brought on board for attitude, and that we trained for skill. I go on to pitch the concept of March Forth, reiterating my belief that this is a perfect time for each employee to re-set their goals for the year.

“Let’s get back to the Four Seasons standard of excellence,” I say. “I know none of these kids are going to be baristas forever, but on the highway of life, this pit stop should at least help cultivate a desire to do the best possible job in any circumstance.”

He thinks about it for a minute, and then volunteers Gloria Gaynor’s I Will Survive as his pick for the lead-off song at the pep rally.

Friday. Fred calls to remind me not to take the concept of March Forth too seriously. He tells me about a guy he knew that rented costumes for his staff, having everybody dress up like Revolutionary War soldiers. They convened in a Save-On Foods parking lot and practiced marching in unison.

I asked about the outcome of that team building exercise. Apparently there was a mutiny, forcing that guy out of retail. He’s now a stay-at-home dad and part-time video game tester.

“I’ll take that under advisement,” I tell Fred, and with that, I log onto iTunes, and start a new playlist.

Marc Lieberman

Mink Chocolates Inc.,
Mink A Chocolate Cafe Ltd.

Call the store: 604.633.2451
Call my mobile: 604.376.3464
Call toll free: 1.866.283.5181

Shop: minkchocolates.com
Tweet: twitter.com/minkchocolates
Join: facebook.com/mink.chocolates
Read: blog.minkchocolates.com
Watch: youtube.com search mink chocolates
In Person: 863 Hastings Street West, Vancouver, BC V6C 3N9

Nine out of every ten persons say they love chocolate. The tenth lies.
– Anthelme Brillat-Savarin